Fight Club
by gethsemane342
Summary: You wake up and switch on the TV. You watch re-runs of the Hunger Games and close your eyes whenever someone dies. And he stands in the corner, watching you silently. The first rule of the Hunger Games is...


**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_. Nor do I own _Fight Club_.**

**Rating**: for mentions of death.

Fight Club

You wake up every morning and he's gone. You clean the house in the set pattern you established all that time ago: brisk and thoughtless, avoiding the undesirable tasks but completing enough of the cleaning that there will be no complaints later. Not that there are ever complaints. You know he won't comment on the house, even if the top floor were to fall through. However, he used to complain and that is enough to make you continue your pattern.

You wake up every afternoon and you're at work. You have worked in this mindless job since you were a child. You could have been promoted; you were in line for better work with higher pay. But some things wouldn't have changed and anyway, the odds were never in your favour. You don't need the extra money anymore. You don't spend what you've saved. You keep it in a pot by your bed instead. Growing every month, coin by coin. You never wanted it to begin with; he will never spend it. One day, you may even throw it out of the window. Imagining the _clink, clink, clink_ of coins hitting cracked pavements almost makes you smile.

You wake up every evening and you're eating dinner. It never fills you up quite as it used to. If you look across the table, you can see him look at it with distaste. You don't make his favourite anymore, even though his favourite was cheap. It was a staple meal in your district; you did not have the money to make anything spectacular. Now, however, you refuse to make it. It was your favourite too.

You wake up every night and the house is silent. You're lucky not to live in a more dangerous area of the district. If someone broke in, you could shout and the odds of the Peacekeepers coming would be in your favour. You venture to the front room to switch on the old TV, letting it fill the room with flickering light and tinny noise. Sometimes, he's there too and he watches you as you watch Hunger Games re-runs. You close your eyes whenever someone dies; his hand twitches as though to comfort you.

You wake up every month and the district's children collect their tesserae. Your mind flashes to the pot full of coins and the sound of _clink, clink, clink_ but you still do nothing. Once or twice, someone here wins the Hunger Games, and no one _needs _tesserae but they go to collect it anyway. You're not eligible for it but you've never wanted it. Sometimes, you think that you could have made his favourite meal with it. You tell yourself that your lack of tesserae stops you from doing it. You then tell yourself that you can't feed every child collecting oil and grain and that's why you don't pour the money out. Sometimes, he stands at the window and watches with you. You don't know when he began to look at you so accusingly. He would help the children, but you control the money.

You wake up every fall and wish you were somewhere else. Smoke and smog fills your district instead of trees and grass. In fall, leaves are supposed to change colour. You imagine a crisp brown that would match his hair. The district is always more subdued. Two more children are scattered to the wind; two more families are distraught as they patch their lives back together. Sometimes, you walk down to the most popular scattering place with him. You used to stay for only ten minutes. Now you can stay for longer but he never stays with you. You feel utterly alone there and it is for that reason, you think, that you can stay for longer than ten minutes.

You wake up every winter and snow hasn't covered the ground. The new Hunger Games victor visits the district but you barely pay attention. You don't look at the families who sit at the front. When you stand at the back of the crowd, he walks forward; he never supports you here but neighbours do. They're kind enough not to talk about his absence. You're too hurt to bring it up. You watch the backs of people's heads as a boy or girl proudly talks about their victory. They never thank anyone from your district.

You wake up every spring and decide that you're going to leave him. You don't want to live your life with only the ghost of his presence for company. You look into buying a new property, perhaps with the coins in the pot by your bed that could make a _clink, clink, clink_ sound, if only you dropped them onto the pavement. You talk to officials. Then you return to your small property, turn on the TV and lose yourself in the tinny sound and flickering light of Hunger Games re-runs that you can barely watch. He waits for you there and in his eyes, you can see that he doesn't want you to leave. Don't let go. Not yet. And, fool that you are, you decide to put it off for one more year.

You wake up every summer and there's another Hunger Games. You attend the Reaping. You watch the Games. You close your eyes whenever anyone dies. At the end of the month, when the bodies return to your district, you wait for the knock on your door. It doesn't always happen. If it does, the parents come in and he silently stands up. They don't acknowledge him because it's you they've come to see. You don't help them. You try, of course, but there is nothing you can say and they know that. You tell them that it will be difficult. You tell them that the Capitol will not support them. You tell them that every parent deals with it differently. And, as you look at him, standing quietly in the corner, you tell them that some never deal with it at all.

You wake up every morning and he's still gone. You tell yourself that this is the day he'll be gone for good. This is the day you will buy that new property. This is the day you will pour that money onto the street and laugh as it makes that _clink, clink, clink_ sound. This is the day you will walk into the room with the TV and watch the one re-run you can never sit through. And then you will clean the house in that set pattern you invented, all those years ago, and wonder when he'll return to you again.

_**Fin**_


End file.
